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Archive for March, 2009

“The Story Teller”

The bottom line is

we argue about the story.

Is it too long and takes up

our own precious time,

 

or is it exceedingly short,

lacking information and therefore value?

I suppose it gives us comfort

to focus on the story rather than the story teller.

 

That way our focal length

is limited, safe, controlled even.

For if we abandoned interest

in the story and reached through

 

with the heart to the heart

on the other side, like finding

a live puppy in a pile of stuffed toys,

our own hearts would skip a beat

 

in delight and surprise

at the connection of warmth and immediacy.

The unexpected joining

with the real story teller

 

creates such a song of joy

that the tune of the story itself

is changed forever

and our arguments over story

 

are revealed as immaterial.

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“Just Another Sunday

I am truly afraid

to be helpful,

allowing you free reign

to shine your light through me

 

for you will surely ask

me to do what I destest

if for no other reason

than to show me there is

 

no where Love is not.

No when, no why, no how.

And I will be left with

poop patrol once again.

 

Yet I have created

this very experience

of being “sure” you will

ask the impossible of me

 

because I ask it of myself:

Be unhappy.

Be limited.

Behave.

 

But what if I just allowed

all of it:  my fear, the truth,

my willingness and lack there of.

Wouldn’t that be closer

 

to presence; to life; to love:

I will close my eyes

on the day shortly.

A trying day: trying to be good,

 

trying to live the impossible

trying to please an idol

trying to justify grievance and anger

trying to cling to an old hate.

 

Now the day is done.

It is finished and it is good,

all of it.   I can accept and bless

the whole spectrum of colors

 

that live in the light

that is me.

 

Amen.

Good night.

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I have never seen

a thing as lovely as a tree

of

life

growing in the middle

of the garden of my insanity.

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Into the softness,

the idea of my innocence

stealthily crept, and made itself at home.

 

The hardness so long

a deterent was

replaced by busyness,

 

whose job it was

to distract from the truth

glowing in the depths of my being.

 

I am no longer

able to silence the light of holiness

for longer than an hour or so,

 

then the unreality of the ancient

joke of separation

is again exposed

 

and I soak in the knowing:

I am innocent

as is my brother.

 

And I remember

to laugh.

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She said my ego

had taken the equivalent

of stool softener.

 

Hers, she claimed, required

weapons of mass destruction

while mine would go

 

in a flurry of

coconut and sprinkles.

I am reminded

 

there is no order

of difficulties (or hardness)

in miracles.

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It matters not

what is happening

in front of my very eyes.

 

I can choose Heaven

to see and forgive,

loving without conditions

 

of mood or circumstance,

outcome or complettion,

right or wrong.

 

This is the piece

of peace I have

been missing.

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“Pop”

“They gave him a bunch of stuff

to relax his heart.”

 

To us they gave only hope.

Hope and prayer and sitting together.

 

Phonecalls and updates,

news without information.

 

We are here too,

in the waiting room.

 

Knowing only the finite

in the infinite probabilities

 

of life.

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In reality

there is

no waiting,

 

just the opportunity

to hear God

whispering in you ear;

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

Hot coffee

good book

no news.

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

Volunteer greeting

old magazines

the low jabber of tv news.

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

Settling in

no where to go

I am here.

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

Room to breathe

time to think

space to be.

 

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

 

All is well

in Love’s

waiting room.

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